


The Sea's Gift

by VeronicaRich



Series: The Sea's Keep [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standalone or sequel to "The Sea’s Keep" – your choice. Humor, romance, sharp pointy things involving Turrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea's Gift

The heavy quiet of the room was what woke Jack, he later decided. No noise at all, and certainly not sunlight, for it was pitch dark out the portholes, from what he could tell. A few hanging lamps were lighted, however, and Jack sat up to see the glow across the room from a better angle.

It was the orange-gray of blackening coals, far enough away to keep from burning the bed’s lone occupant but hot enough to provide warmth even in this cavernous room. Jack shifted to face forward, shaking his head anew at the sheer space of what the _Dutchman’s_ captain could call his private quarters. The covers fell away as he yawned, and he looked around, eyes landing on Will’s greatcoat and baldric on a hook near the door – hanging next to his own coat and baldric. No other hooks were visible, he absently noted.

Jack certainly didn’t remember hanging things up; Will must’ve done it sometime between falling asleep half-sprawled across Jack and now. He pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as he stood – he was in good shape for a man of his years, but this wasn’t exactly a typical ache. This was the kind a man of less than twenty years would be hard-pressed to vault over right away. Still, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant; he flexed and arched his toes into the wood of the floor and chewed at his lower lip as he grinned at how he’d managed to make Death himself need a nap.

He walked around the bed – an honest-to-God bed, where there would normally be only room for a bunk, even a generous one – supposedly nailed into the floor and wall to keep it from moving around. He spotted his tricorn hanging from one of the posts, and laughed, wondering if all his clothes were likely folded and stacked neatly somewhere, his boots cleaned and brushed. He began looking around, and his gaze alighted on something across the room catching the shine of the hot coals.

Swords.

Jack crossed the cabin and paused near the rack of blades, sleek and sharp and undoubtedly perfectly balanced. Going up on his toes, he lifted one by its pommel and examined it, gripping the handle briefly before laying the fuller across two fingers. It barely rocked. “Thought so,” he murmured, nodding.

Somehow, the footsteps scraping the floor behind him had sneaked up without him hearing the man’s entrance. Jack flipped the sword into the air enough to wrap his fingers around the grip and turned, swinging it into an arc around the back of his head.

With an overhand, Will stopped the blade by grabbing it mid-air, just short of his neck. Jack held perfectly rigid, every muscle arrested as he breathed shallowly, his eyes narrowing on Will's. Neither said a word for several seconds; gradually, Will lowered the blade and Jack relaxed his arms. "Need to stop sneakin' up on the living like that, mate," he warned, controlling his breathing. "Bad for th' heart."

"Hmm." Will released the sword and held up his hand, which had a blood-smeared cut across the meat of his palm. "Not so good for me, either."

Setting aside the sword, Jack took the hand to inspect the gash. "If you have some cloth, I can wrap this up-" He shut up as the skin began closing, knitting itself back together. He'd forgotten what and who Will was, apparently. "I'll be damned," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Oh, I doubt the afterlife would be that unkind to you." Will smirked. "What are you up to?"

“Swords shine; I’m a pirate. Add the sums, mate.”

Picking up the blade Jack had put aside, Will hefted it. “You can swing something heavier than this,” he judged, replacing it on the rack and pulling down two others, passing one to the older man. “Here, see if this suits.”

Jack tried; it was a little heavy, but not uncomfortably, and the grip was short enough to get a better hold around. He eyed Will sideways, watching him nonchalantly inspecting the other sword’s manufacture – but the man’s expectant manner vibrated off him like a stirred hornet. Jack casually raised his sword, letting his wrist swing it up; as he turned into it, he lunged quite suddenly toward Will. As he suspected, the poor ruse vanished and the smith snapped his sword into a defensive cross, Jack’s blade ringing off it.

“Knew it,” he chuckled, bracing his stance for more.

“I think you’d better get on some breeches, or a shirt,” Will mildly observed, pushing Jack’s blade aside with his own, the susurration of an almost-ring as they slid apart.

“Don’t fight with cloth, do I?”

Will indicated his own boots, breeches and long shirt pulled on, tail left outside. “I’m not going to fight you with-” Jack lunged, cutting him off, but Will swung aside, avoiding the parry. “Naked,” he finished, pointedly eyeing Jack’s groin.

He kept his eyes on his opponent’s face, like any good fencer. “That’s extremely fortunate, William, seein’ as you’re _not_.” He made another parry, smoothly changing mid thrust to switch direction, getting closer, forcing Will to bring up his sword. “Nothin’ you’ve not seen before,” he needled. “Maybe more close up …”

Will sighed and Jack detected something akin to impatience in his expression. “It’s not a fair fight to begin with. This leaves you even more vulnerable.”

“Why?” He prodded Will into retaliating with a few of his own parries, carefully aimed – or rather, carefully not aimed toward any soft bits, and less effective. “Do you believe I haven’t defended myself in th’ altogether before?”

“Jealous husband?” Will hummed, blocking another. After a couple of beats, he added, “Jealous wife?” Jack grinned. “Dear God, tell me it wasn’t a farm animal.”

“Now, William,” he chided, never stopping. “Henny was special.” Will snorted, but still moved too sluggishly for Jack’s taste. He pressed harder, deliberately aiming for weak spots he knew wouldn’t matter anyway. Another moment of halfhearted blocking on Will’s part, and Jack stabbed harder, right at his side. “What in th’ hell happened to _you_?” he demanded.

“I’m not going to fight you like this.”

“Why?”

“Jack, give up.”

 _”WHY?”_ he practically bellowed.

The next time he lunged, he stumbled, realizing he was standing where Will had been. He righted himself, about to look around, when he felt the light slap of lukewarm metal to a buttock. Spinning, he found Will, who had apparently vanished from one spot to another. “You cheated!” slipped out before he could check himself.

Will lifted one eyebrow, obviously amused. _“Demigod.”_

Rather than accede to the man’s point, Jack attacked again. Will responded more solidly this time – finally! – but still checked himself as Jack shamelessly moved as if he had the protection of clothing, refusing to change his posture to meet the expectations of a naked man holding certain things away from danger. He watched Will’s eyes for clues of his movements, narrowing his own to mask intent – for all the good it would do against a man he knew could’ve bested him without the aid of the supernatural. Sure enough, after a couple of minutes, he judged, Will grew tired of caution and began parrying harder, though Jack suspected still not to his limits. _If he went to his limits, you’d be dead,_ he considered.

Instead of slowing him down, it made Jack fight just as hard, and Will gave him just enough retreat to lash back within limits, coming a few inches from mortally endangering Jack with every press. Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes to slits and chase Jack closer to the warmth of the forge. “Still play with your sword three hours a day?” he taunted.

“Don’t have to.” Will simmered, the matching expression reaching his eyes, and Jack moved his sword and shimmied out of the way just in time to avoid a stab at his thigh.

“Still haven’t learned to fight dirty, eh?”

“Still haven’t learned how to wave that thing around without it?” Will snapped.

Jack kept pushing; Will kept occasionally forgetting himself and advancing, then retreating after a short burst. Jack was breathing hard, feeling sweat around his hairline and dampening his neck, but of course Will didn’t seem exerted. At one point when Jack rather viciously went for Will’s midsection, the other captain cut him off hard and pushed back. Jack kept pressing his luck, getting roughly countered, but he still got into Will’s space, metal crashing and ringing in time with the surge in his blood, and Will gave it back. At one point, the edge of Will’s blade landed an inch from the side of Jack’s throat, near the hilt, paused only because of a quick stop of iron control. Will narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils, a victorious smirk curving his mouth. “Give, pirate.”

So, Jack did. He leaned forward and gave Will a hard, quick kiss, flummoxing him just long enough to duck under his blade and out of the way.

Will set his teeth and lowered his sword. “Jack Ass,” he muttered, setting apart the two words, but its object could tell he was holding his jaw so rigid, not to laugh.

“More than that, you play your cards right and don’t stab it,” Jack retorted, lunging once again at him.

“How the hell else do you win a fight?” Will demanded.

They said nothing more, only grunting and occasionally jeering, until Jack finally, somehow, wormed his way in under Will’s defense and pressed the tip of his blade to the open vee of his loose shirt. They came to a stop, Jack tightened his grip, and Will lowered his weapon. “Well?”

He knew Will would survive it, but the puckered gash bisecting his chest was too much. _“Parlez,”_ he answered, lifting the sword away.

Will snorted. "Talk, then."

"Why're you fighting like a fop?" Will's eyebrows went up. "Overextending, leaving yourself open, slowing down - it's horseshit, Will. You could kill me if you wanted."

"Yes," the _Dutchman's_ captain agreed, eyes hard. "I _could've_. Why didn't you drink it, Jack?"

He thought about playing dumb, but had caught Will a few times already eyeing the bundled strands of silver at his temples - and parts south. "Just haven't gotten around to it."

"Around to it," Will repeated, flatly. "You don't 'get around' to careening the ship. You don't 'get around' to polishing your sword regularly."

"More fun t' have someone else do it for me, love." Jack winked.

"You don't 'get around' to taking questionable advice," he continued, unfazed. "I wouldn't describe seizing eternal youth as 'getting around' to it. Since when don't you want it?"

Jack sighed, bringing the heel of his free hand up to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead and to give him an excuse to briefly shield his face as he answered. "Since I figured out there's no one will do it with me, as I'd have."

"Come again?"

"Barbossa was eager enough. Just like that worm Beckett would've been. But not Gibbs. Not Anton or Jezzy." He shook his head against the memory of being turned down by the few associates he'd be willing to share such a future with, in either friendship or at least occasional conjugal bliss. "Nobody decent."

He might've imagined Will's expression softening a touch. "Did they say why?"

"Told me they didn't wan' outlive everybody around them. Wives, sons, sisters." He jiggled his sword by bouncing the hilt lightly on his thumb, annoyed. Frustrated.

Will looked pleased. "The infamous Captain Jack Sparrow needs loyal friends. Who'd've thought?"

Jack stilled his sword. "Oh, shut it," he grumbled, turning to carry his sword back to hang it up. "Besides, the water is gone, William. Gave it to someone else."

"You _gave_ it to someone else?"

"Bartered, more like." He turned back to face Will in a smooth arc. "Let's just say it's an investment in near-future goodwill with potential politicians."

Rolling his eyes, Will said, "So it's all gone. You're not interested in the future, seeing how the world turns out, then?" He closed the space between them ... and stepped past, hanging his own sword. "You're good with sailing on to the distant shores one last time?"

Jack looked around, remembering what ship he was on and its purpose. "You have something you're not telling ol' Jack, Ferryman?" he finally thought to ask, his heartbeat picking up in anxiety.

Will's chuff of laughter was soft and warm. "You're neither dead nor dying, Jack." He paused. "Today."

"Ahh. You're wondering if I'll stay around for you."

“I’m wondering when you decided that you need anyone but the _Pearl_ and a fleet’s worth of rum for the next nine hundred years, actually.” He cupped a hand to Jack’s bare shoulder. “Not the Captain Sparrow I met heading to Isle de Muerte to blast Barbossa off his ship.”

“Age has a way of reshufflin’ one’s priorities, mate.” Jack didn’t so much shrug as roll into Will’s fingers. “Or at least adding to them.”

“You’ve not answered me,” Will observed.

Jack scratched the side of his nose, stalling. “I’m not keen on trudging through that swamp and hacking through th’ local haunted beasties for another dram of it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Liar.”

He threw his hands up. “I’m not sure I’d survive another excursion through it at this age, alright? And if I don’t have much time left, well …” He eyed Will meaningfully, eyes making a quick circuit of his long, lean body, as he flexed fingers itching to caress. “I can think of more rewarding ways of strutting toward the edge of Shakespeare’s stage, darlin’.”

“Very well.” Will’s hand moved to the back of his neck and he leaned in to cover Jack’s mouth in a kiss. Their moustaches brushed and ruffled, and Jack went along as he felt Will backing up, pulling him. When they finally broke, it wasn’t the bed behind Will, but the wardrobe. He pulled the door open and removed a brown corked jug, along with a small smudged glass.

Jack’s eyes lighted up. “Man knows his way to a pirate’s heart,” he grinned.

“I certainly do.” Will pulled the cork, splashed out a glassful, and set the jug aside. “Just the thing after a hot, sweaty bout of exercise.”

“And before another.” Only then did Jack notice the non-amber liquid, and started to protest – until he looked twice. The water was a light pink, nearly glowing, and mildly cloudy with brine. He blinked, his pulse picking up this time in excitement. “Where did you get that?”

“Don’t you mean ‘When?’ or ‘How?’” Will nudged it toward him.

He considered that, choosing instead, “Why?” The same intensity Will had ever showed every time he had charged in to cover Jack’s backside in a fight – the same he had expressed hours earlier, as they’d rolled between his sheets – colored the shift in his expression. Something in Jack’s chest skipped, and he breathed out, “Oh.”

Will offered him a small smile. “ _Now_ your loquaciousness deserts you? Shame.” He shook his head. “I was just keeping you around for the conversation, after all.”

“Aye – and I’ve just been visitin’ for the morality lessons.” He lifted the glass, sniffed its contents, and made a face over the singular odor. “Really bad eggs,” he hummed, taking a deep breath and raising the glass toward Will. “The ‘Immoral Captain Jack Sparrow’ has a nice ring.”

“Immortal,” Will corrected automatically.

He finished draining the drink and licked his lips as his other hand latched onto Will’s wrist. “But what’d be fun about one without the other?”


End file.
